Oh, the little more, and how much it is!
And the little less, and what worlds away!
A howling gale of wind from the south-east, and driving snow and
darkness. The light of Cap Grisnez struggling out over the blackness
of the Channel, and the two Foreland lights twinkling feebly from their
snow-clad heights. A night to turn in one's bed with a sleepy word of
thanksgiving that one has a bed to turn in, and no pressing need to
turn out of it.
The smaller fry of Channel shipping have crept into Dungeness or the
Downs. Some of them have gone to the bottom. Two of them are breaking
up on the Goodwins.
The Croonah Indian liner is pounding into it all, with white decks and
whistling shrouds. The passengers are below in their berths. Some of
them--and not only the ladies--are sending up little shamefaced
supplications to One who watches over the traveller in all places and
at all times.
And on the bridge of the Croonah a man all eyes and stern resolve and
maritime instinct. A man clad in his thickest clothes, and over all of
them his black oilskins. A man with three hundred lives depending upon
his keen eyes, his knowledge, and his judgment. A man whose name is
Luke FitzHenry.
The captain has gone below for a few minutes to thaw, leaving the ship
to FitzHenry. He does it with an easy conscience--as easy, that is, as
the maritime conscience can well be in a gale of wind, with the
Foreland lights ahead and infinite possibilities all around. The
captain drinks his whisky and hot water with a certain slow
appreciation of the merits of that reprehensible solution, and glances
at the aneroid barometer on the bulkhead of his cabin.
Overhead, on the spidery bridge, far up in the howling night, Luke
FitzHenry, returning from the enervating tropics, stares sternly into
the night, heedless of the elemental warfare. For Luke FitzHenry has a
grudge against the world, and people who have that take a certain
pleasure in evil weather.
"The finest sailor that ever stepped," reflects the captain of his
second officer--and he no mean mariner himself.
The Croonah had groped her way up Channel through a snowstorm of three
days' duration, and the brunt of it had fallen by right of seniority on
the captain and his second officer. Luke FitzHenry was indefatigable,
and, better still, he was without enthusiasm. Here was the steady,
unflinching combativeness which alone can master the elements. Here
was the true genius of the sea.
With his craft at his fingers' ends, Luke had that instinct of
navigation by which some men seem to find their way upon the trackless
waters. There are sailors who are no navigators just as there are
hunting men who cannot ride. There are navigators who will steer you
from London to Petersburg without taking a sight, from the Thames to
the Suez Canal without looking at their sextant. Such a sailor as this
was Luke FitzHenry. Perfectly trained, he assimilated each item of
experience with an insatiable greed for knowledge--and it was all
maritime knowledge. He was a sailor and nothing else. But it is
already something--as they say in France--to be a good sailor.
Luke FitzHenry was a man of middle height, sturdy, with broad shoulders
and a slow step. His clean-shaven face was a long oval, with
pessimistic, brooding eyes--eyes that saw everything except the small
modicum of good which is in all human things, and to this they were
persistently blind. Taking into consideration the small, set mouth, it
was eminently a pugnacious face--a face that might easily degenerate to
the coarseness of passion in the trough of a losing fight. But,
fortunately, Luke's lines were cast upon the great waters, and he who
fights the sea must learn to conquer, not by passionate effort, but by
consistent, cool resolve. Those who worked with him feared him, and in
so doing learnt the habit of his ways. The steersman, with one eye on
the binnacle, knew always where to find him with the other; for Luke
hardly moved during his entire watch on deck. He took his station at
the starboard end of the narrow bridge when he came on duty, and from
that spot he rarely moved. These little things betray a man, if one
only has the patience to piece them together.
Those who go down to the sea in ships, and even those who take their
pleasure on the great water, know the relative merits of the man who
goes to his post and stays there, and of him who is all over the ship
and restless.
Luke was standing now like a statue--black and gleaming amid the
universal grey of the winter night, and his deep eyes, cat-like,
pierced the surrounding gloom.
Here was a man militant. A man who must needs be fighting something,
and Fate, with unusual foresight, had placed him in a position to fight
Nature. Luke FitzHenry rather revelled in a night such as this--the
gloom, the horror, and the patent danger of it suited his morose,
combative nature. He loved danger and difficulty with the subtle form
of love which a fighting man experiences for a relentless foe.
From light to light he pushed his intrepid way through the darkness and
the bewildering intricacies of the Downs, and in due time, in the full
sunlight of the next day, the Croonah sidled alongside the quay in the
Tilbury Dock. The passengers, with their new lives before them,
stumbled ashore, already forgetting the men who, smoke-begrimed and
weary, had carried these lives within their hands during the last month
or more. They crowded down the gangway and left Luke to go to his
cabin.
There were two letters lying on the little table. One from Fitz at
Mahon, the other in a handwriting which Luke had almost forgotten. He
turned it over with the subtle smile of a man who has a grudge against
women. But he opened it before the other.
"DEAR LUKE,--I am glad to hear from Fitz that you are making your way
in the Merchant Service. He tells me that your steamer, the Croonah,
has quite a reputation on the Indian route, and your fellow-officers
are all gentlemen. I shall be pleased to see you to dinner the first
evening you have at your disposal. I dine at seven-thirty.--Believe
me, yours very truly, MARIAN HARRINGTON.
"P.S.--I shall deem it a favour if you will come in dress clothes, as I
have visitors."
And, strange to say, it was the feminine stab in the postscript that
settled the matter. Luke sat down and wrote out a telegram at once,
accepting Mrs. Harrington's invitation for the same evening.
When he rang the bell of the great house in Grosvenor Gardens at
precisely half-past seven that evening, he was conscious of a certain
sense of elation. He was quite sure of himself.
He thought that the large drawing-room was empty when the butler
ushered him into it, and some seconds elapsed before he discerned the
form of a young lady in a deep chair near the fire.
The girl turned her head and rose from the chair with a smile and a
certain grace of manner which seemed in some indefinite way to have
been put on with her evening dress. For a moment Luke gazed at her,
taken aback. Then he bowed gravely, and she burst into a merry laugh.
"How funny!" she cried. "You do not know me?"
"No-o-o," he answered, searching his mind. For he was a passenger
sailor, and many men and women crossed his path during the year.
She came forward with a coquettish little laugh and placed herself
beneath the gas, inviting his inspection, sure of herself, confident in
her dressmaker.
She was small and very upright, with a peculiarly confident carriage of
the head, which might indicate determination or, possibly, a mere
resolution to get her money's worth. Her hair, perfectly dressed, was
of the colour of a slow-worm. She called it fair. Her enemies said it
reminded them of snakes. Her eyes were of a darker shade of ashen
grey, verging on hazel. Her mouth was mobile, with thin lips and an
expressive corner--the left-hand corner--and at this moment it
suggested pert inquiry. Some people thought she had an expressive
face, but then some people are singularly superficial in their mode of
observation. There was really no power of expressing any feeling in
the small, delicately cut face. It all lay in the mouth, in the
left-hand corner thereof.
"Well?" she said, and Luke's wonder gradually faded into admiration.
"I give it up," he answered.
She shrugged her shoulders in pretended disgust.
"You are not polite," she said, with a glance at his stalwart person
which might have indicated that there were atoning merits. "I must say
you are not polite, Luke. I do not think I will tell you. It would be
still more humiliating to learn that you have forgotten my existence."
"You cannot be Agatha!" he exclaimed.
"Can I not? It happens that I AM Agatha Ingham-Baker--at your service!"
She swept him a low curtsey and sailed away to the mantelpiece, thereby
giving him the benefit of the exquisite fit of her dress. She stood
with one arm on the mantel-shelf, looking back at him over her
shoulder, summing him up with a little introspective nod.
"I should like to know why I cannot be Agatha," she asked, with that
keen feminine scent for a personality which leads to the uttering of so
much nonsense, and the brewing of so much mischief.
"I never thought--" he began.
"Yes?"
He laughed and refused to go any farther, although she certainly made
the way easy for him.
"In fact," she said mockingly, "you are disappointed. You never
expected me to turn out such a horrid--"
"You know it isn't that," he interrupted, with a flash of his gloomy
eyes.
"Not now," she said quietly, glancing towards the door. "I hear Mrs.
Harrington coming downstairs. You can tell me afterwards."
Luke turned on his heel and greeted Mrs. Harrington with quite a
pleasant smile, which did not belong to her by rights, but to the girl
behind him.
Fitz had been away for two years. Mrs. Harrington in making overtures
of peace to Luke had been prompted by the one consistent motive of her
life, self-gratification. She was tired of the obsequious society of
persons like the Ingham-Bakers, whom she mentally set down as
parasites. There is a weariness of the flesh that comes to rich women
uncontrolled. They weary of their own power. Tyranny palls. Mrs.
Harrington was longing to be thwarted by some one stronger than
herself. The FitzHenrys even in their boyhood had, by their sturdy
independence, their simple, seamanlike self-assertion, touched some
chord in this lone woman's heart which would not vibrate to cringing
fingers.
She had sent for Luke because Fitz was away. She wanted to be
thwarted. She would have liked to be bullied. And also there was that
subtle longing for the voice, the free gesture, the hearty manliness of
one whose home is on the sea.
As Luke turned to greet her with the rare smile on his face he was
marvellously like Fitz. He was well dressed. There was not the
slightest doubt that this was a gentleman. Nay, more, he looked
distinguished. And above all, he carried himself like a sailor. So
the reconciliation was sudden and therefore complete. A reconciliation
to be complete must be sudden. It is too delicate a thing to bear
handling.
Luke had come intending to curse. He began to feel like staying to
bless. He was quite genial and pleasant, greeting Mrs. Ingham-Baker as
an old friend, and thereby distinctly upsetting that lady's mental
equilibrium. She had endeavoured to prevent this meeting, because she
thought it was not fair to Fitz. She noted the approval with which
Mrs. Harrington's keen eyes rested on the young sailor, and endeavoured
somewhat obviously to draw Agatha's attention to it by frowns and
heavily significant nods, which her dutiful daughter ignored.
Mrs. Harrington glanced impatiently at the clock.
"That stupid Count is late," she said.
"Is the Count de Lloseta coming?" asked Mrs. Ingham-Baker eagerly.
From the strictly impartial standpoint of a mother she felt sure that
the Count admired Agatha.
"Yes," answered Mrs. Harrington, with a cynical smile.
And Mrs. Ingham-Baker, heedless of the sarcasm, was already engaged in
an exhaustive examination of Agatha's dress. She crossed the room and
delicately rectified some microscopic disorder of the snake-like hair.
With a final glance up and down, she crossed her arms at her waist and
looked complacently towards the door.
The Count came in, and failed to realise the hope that apparently
buoyed Mrs. Ingham-Baker's maternal heart. He did not strike an
attitude or cover his dazzled eyes when they rested on Agatha. He
merely came forward with his gravest smile and uttered the pleasant
fictions appropriate to the occasion. Mrs. Ingham-Baker was marked in
her gracious reception of the Spaniard, and the hostess watched her
effusions with a queer little smile.
At dinner Mrs. Ingham-Baker was opposite to the Count, who seemed
preoccupied and somewhat absent-minded. Her attention was divided
between an anticipatory appreciation of Mrs. Harrington's cook and an
evident admiration for her own daughter.
"Agatha was just saying," observed the stout lady between the candle
shades, "that we had not seen the Count de Lloseta for quite a long
time. Only yesterday, was it not, dear?"
Agatha acquiesced.
"The loss," answered the Count, "is mine. But it is more than made
good by the news that my small absence was noted. I have been abroad."
Mrs. Harrington at the end of the table looked up sharply, and a few
drops of soup fell from her upraised spoon with a splash.
"In Spain?" she asked.
"In Spain."